


A Compelling Argument

by MerKat



Series: MerKat RPs [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bottom!Sherlock, Bottoming from the Top, Claiming, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Human!Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, Light Angst, Light Angst and Smut, M/M, Mating, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Smut, Temporary Character Death, Topping from the Bottom, Vampire!John, Vamplock, Violence, aulock, bottom!John, caretaker!John, injured!Sherlock, panicked!John, protective!John, top!John, top!Sherlock, vampire!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2285793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerKat/pseuds/MerKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wanted a lot of things for and from Sherlock, but he was content to wait until Sherlock wanted the same for and from him. At least, he was, until a criminal and his blade forced John’s hand. And his fangs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Compelling Argument

John wants to turn Sherlock. He wants it more than he's ever wanted anything since his first death in Afghanistan over a century ago; he wants it more than anything since his first birth nearly a century and a half ago. He wants to drink Sherlock's blood and have the man willingly take of his vein in turn, preferably while one of them is deep inside the other. He wants to kill him, quick and clean and painless. Not by snapping his neck, as the movies liked to show sometimes, because that wasn't quick: it left a person paralyzed until they suffocated on their own inability to draw oxygen into their lungs, and he has never wanted anything less than Sherlock's pain or unhappiness. Maybe an injection, or something in his tea; or, most preferably, drain the man dry during intercourse, when the pleasure of John's fangs and his cock overshadow all. Because more than he wants to spend forever by the man's side, he never wants the world to lose that mind, that intelligence, that brilliance. And, not for the first time, as the doctor stared over the rim of his tea cup at the genius supine on the sofa across from him, he weighs the pros and cons of turning the other man without his permission, and the probabilities of whether he would be rebuked or welcome upon the detective's rebirth.

Sherlock was aware of John’s gaze. Not for the first time, he was pondering the mystery of John Watson. He was older than he appeared or claimed, Sherlock was certain of that. But beyond that, he had no idea what any of it meant. He was pulled from his reverie by his mobile going off on the table. With a sigh, John grabbed it and brought it to him. Their hands touched a moment longer than was necessary, but neither man commented on it as Sherlock sat up and glanced at the message.

In a moment, he was on his feet, heading for the door, texting a response even as he got his scarf and coat on. John was asking him about the new case, but Sherlock didn’t respond, simply headed down the stairs and into the night, calling for a taxi.

Unfortunately, John was far too used to this pre-case, close-lipped state of Sherlock’s and he only sighed as he joined the human he had chosen to follow, and in a way, serve, into the cab. The ride was silent as the vampire allowed his eyes to take in the the details outside, his vision as good as a human’s in daylight, and his friend busied himself with his mobile. When the vehicle stopped a good twenty minutes later, it was outside of a refuse-strewn, grimy alley lit with flood lights highlighting the swarm of NSY members around a body on the ground. When the detective was out his side of the cab almost as fast as John could move, the vampire rolled his eyes and paid the cabbie staring at him with an expectantly-raised brow, wondering what Sherlock would do if he knew John had started a savings account for his sister in the event of his death before he’d gone off to war, and the interest it had gained since the late 1800s mean that he now had a small fortune hidden away in an old bank account. If he didn’t, the locum work he supplemented his days with wouldn’t be enough alone to keep up with how much Sherlock and him spent on taxis. By the time he’d gotten out of the cab, his detective was flouncing all over the crime scene, muttering this and shouting that and ducking down for a closer look there. John took his time joining him, eyes squinted against the lights; artificial lights weren’t as bad as UV rays, but he still needed the special darkening contacts he wore like sunglasses in order to see without being blinded.

Anderson started to say something about how the man hadn’t died from the fall and Sherlock waved him quiet. He knew that already. He started spouting off deductions almost faster than Lestrade could write them down. Out of his depth, like always. “I need to go to the roof,” he snapped.

Lestrade started to argue, sighed, and pointed him at a door. He started following but Sherlock shook his head. He needed to see the crime scene without a bunch of footprints scuffing it up. Without looking back he took the stairs two at a time. It was only a four story building, at least, as he pushed open the door. The roof appeared deserted but he quickly noticed the signs of a struggle. His eyes were glued to the ground in front of him, following the trail.

Suddenly someone stepped from behind a chimney and before he could react, a knife was plunged deep under his ribs. He struggled, trying to see the face of his murderer, but in a moment was crashing to the ground.

John had decided to take his time going up the stairs, knowing that he could potentially be stuck up there for hours. Halfway up, his supernatural hearing caught the sound of a meaty thunk, one recognised all too as well as the sound of a blade pressing through flesh and muscle. A second later, he heard his name, but it sounded too wet, too raspy. He was up the stairs in less time than it took a human to blink.

Sherlock was on the ground, a blade in his side ( _ribs, lungs, internal bleedout,_ the doctor’s mind whispered treacherously), and a man standing over him with an expression of sick triumph. John was on him before the man’s heart could jump in surprise, and he snapped his neck the same way he had dismissed earlier doing to Sherlock. This break he did not make clean, it was a full paralysation, and his suffocation would not be short.

Sherlock knew he was dying. His foolish lungs still gasped for air despite the futility. But John was here. Words formed his mind, things he had always thought he could say later. No time now, and even as he tried to speak, he found he couldn’t. Instead he reached for John’s hand, not wanting to leave him, not now, not ever.

“Shit. _Shit. Sherlock_ ,” John gasped, falling to his knees. “God shit, I can’t fix this. _I can’t fix this_.” Scenario after scenario was running through his head, but only one was viable. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do this without your permission. I wanted to wait. I wanted to do this so differently. I don’t want you to hate me for this, but I want you to die even less. God, I’m so sorry for this.” The vampire’s fangs dropped and he scored his free wrist, pressing it to the gasping mouth. “I need you to drink, Sherlock.” There was a pause as Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his mind calculating, diagnosing, even now. “You’ll understand later, but if you want to keep going in this world, _I need you to drink_.”

If there was one thing Sherlock believed in and trusted in this world, it was John Watson. So he drank. Cautiously at first, then greedily. It didn’t taste like normal human blood; it was somehow sweeter, like a forbidden fruit. He was still drinking, still looking up at John, when he felt his whole body shudder. His head dropped back and his last thought was of how blue John’s eyes were.

“Shit. _Shit!_ ” John cursed frantically. “Don’t you fucking die before I’ve even finished!” Sherlock’s heart rate was much too low, his breath coming in low, short, sporadic gasps. Fangs still extended, the vampire wrapped an arm around the slim shoulders to pull the man into his lap before he ducked his head and bit into the man's lax neck. The taste of his friend's blood was near orgasmic, and he couldn't help the way he broke away to moan before he leaned back in to drink. Sherlock was already unconscious, and it saddened him to think his genius would never feel the same pleasure of being drunk from as a human. The weak thump of a straining heart slowed and grew quieter with each deep pull he took. It was more of a proper meal than he'd had in years, subsisting on blood bags when he could and sips on his human partners when he couldn't. At last, the man's heart gave out and his last ragged breath stuttered away. Sherlock Holmes was dead in his arms.

For a long minute, John had to sit there, arm tight around his friend's shoulder and hand tight around the limp one in his grasp, swamped with the sensation of needing to cry without the ability. The murderer was gasping for breath behind him and he was filled with a sudden hatred and need to destroy the one who had taken such a grand opportunity from him and the one he had chosen for a mate. Unfortunately, he had no time to make the human suffer; he needed to get his genius back to familiar territory to help minimise the trauma of an unexpected rebirth. Quickly, he moved to the murderer and picked him up, flinging him over the far side of the building and delighting in the sick crunch that followed seconds later. Even quicker, he hurried back to Sherlock to remove the blade and stuff it in the back of his jeans, unconcerned to the damage it could cause his flesh, before be buttoned the open Belstaff, covering the damage before standing. Quick as lightning, he had hoisted his partner into a fireman's hold before zipping back down to the first floor where NSY was just coming up, guns drawn and expressions wary.

"Git knocked himself out," he explained, faking a laugh as he jostled his cargo as if struggling with the weight. "Scared the shit out of me." Everyone, Greg included, was looking at him with expressions of mixed dubiousness and accepting exasperation.

“Does he need hospital?” asked Greg.

John shook his head. “No, I can take care of him at home.”

Greg watched him hurry out the door, not quite believing, but knowing the stubbornness of both men. He gestured for his own officers to continue heading on up to investigate as he followed John back out. “Let me at least give you a ride home.”

Despite Sherlock's constant derision of the DI's abilities, John knew Greg would figure out something else was up if they did accept the ride, and he couldn't let anyone know what had happened; and if Sherlock's body rejected the change, a thought that made him feel cold all over in a way he hadn't felt since he'd been human, then he would need to vanish. "It's okay. We practically have city cabs on our payroll anyway," he laughed, knowingly shifting the body across his shoulders. "You stay here and work on the crime scene. I'll have this one text tomorrow after I'm sure there hasn't been any other damage." After a moment, Greg shrugged and waved them out. As John trekked down the last few steps and out the door, he could feel Sherlock's blood finally seep through the Belstaff's thick fabric and onto his back.

**.oOo.**

Thank god Mrs Hudson was at her sister's. It was almost too convenient, but it had been a week-long trip a month in the making. And John supposed that Sherlock really couldn't have chosen a better time to die. He carried the chilling, stiffening form into the toilet, filling the tub with hot water and throwing the Belstaff to soak before shredding the shirt and binning it. Even though the body beneath his hand wouldn't feel it, he soaked a cloth in warm water, and delicately erased all traces of blood from the sharp contrast of pale skin. When he finished, perhaps lingering over the almost-protruding ribs and the flat stomach and pink nipples and sharp collar bones longer than he should have, he moved Sherlock into the detective's own room, putting him in a new shirt and laying him on top of the bed. He felt an irrational need to put him in his pyjamas and put him under the covers, wanting him to be comfortable, but knowing that wouldn't make a difference to a newborn. Silently, John pressed a kiss to the slack forehead, praying that he'd finished the exchange in time as he laced his fingers with limp ones and pulled a chair up to the side of the bed to wait.

Sherlock felt a flicker of consciousness a moment before he recognized what it was. He was dead, wasn’t he? He felt strange, _Hungry_. It was as if his body had been hollowed out until only the spirit remained. Uncertain if it was wise, he pushed for the surface, struggling like a drowning man until with a gasp his eyes flew open. He was in bed, home, dressed. John was by his side. _How?_ “How?” he asked through dry lips. He wasn’t breathing, not normally. His heart felt still in his chest. But he could see and feel John’s hand in his.

John couldn't help the wry smile that pulled at his lips at the question; of course Sherlock wouldn't wake precisely like the rest of them did. His mind flashed through reaction after reaction: anger, hatred, disgust, fear, annoyance, apathy, scientific intrigue; and slowly he eased back into his seat, pulling his fingers free as he did so. There was no hiding the tension in every limb, but there was no harm pretending at relaxation either. For a moment, he pondered where he would start; he hadn't even thought about it while he was waiting, too anxious about the guarantee of resurrection to let his mind work on anything else. Now, his mind awash in relief, he had to ignore it to concentrate on a viable starting point. "Have you deleted 'vampires', Sherlock?" he finally asked, unable to meet the unfocused grey eyes slowly regaining their intensity.

Sherlock blinked a few times. John wouldn’t look at him. His body was tense, as if he were afraid Sherlock would lash out at him. The question settled into his mind and the detective made a quick hunt of his mind palace. “Myth,” he said slowly. “Folklore. Deceased beings that feast on the blood of the living.” He looked down at himself carefully put a hand over his heart. There was no beat. “I should be dead. I remember dying.” He turned his eyes back to his soldier. “According to legend, one can be made a vampire by another.” Sherlock moved his hand from his chest and reached for John’s again, needing that grounding, that reassurance. He realized his hearing had improved; he could hear far more of the flat and the city around them. But he couldn’t hear John’s heartbeat. Fear trickled in the back of his mind. “Tell me what happened, John.”

John allowed the touch, but he did nothing to reciprocate it and he turned his head away, gaze drifting out the open window. "I wanted to do this so differently. I wanted to make sure you--" He cut himself off, voice unusually thick in his throat; now was not the time to let even an inkling of the true depth of his affection for the man--the vampire--show. "I turned you, and then you died in my arms."

He could feel John holding himself apart and withdrew his hand. Perhaps he regretted this already. The thought made Sherlock’s heart twist in chest. Or would have. At least he knew he could still feel. And there was so much he felt for John Watson. He remember words at the tip of his tongue as he lay dying. Words he couldn't say then, words he should probably keep locked up now. Instead he swallowed, finding his mouth dry. That hunger burned brighter. “What happens now?” he asked instead.

There was a clenching sensation in John's chest where his heart used to be when the hand around his pulled away and he hastily withdrew his own. Apathy then. And curiosity. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed at the apparent lack of the servitude- and affection-laden bond that could develop between a vampire and their creation. But at least now he could meet his friend's eyes again. "You need to ingest human blood before the next day break or you will die permanently. What happens now is up to you. I will guide you through what I can if you want me to. Or if you would prefer to work through your change yourself. Or if you would prefer to let your death occur as is currently scheduled." His words felt cold to his own ears, but what was of greatest importance now was letting Sherlock decide. Both his death and his rebirth had been choices made by someone else, but this choice he had to make himself, without the opinions or interference of anyone else, including, or perhaps especially, John.

Sherlock gave a mirthless smile. “I seem to have already missed my scheduled death.” He studied John’s face. “If you do not regret what you have done, then I would be glad for your assistance in negotiating this new existence.” He wondered again if John did regret it, if he could only look him in the face now because the decision had been made. Of course he would have appreciated being _asked_ , but what was done was done and he was eager to see what lay ahead for them.

"'Regret'?" John echoed, startled enough to turn his head and meet the guarded grey eyes. "You're alive, even if you aren't really. Even if you eschewed me because of what I'd done, it would be better to lose what we have between us than for you to never walk London again." So much for not alerting one of the most observant, intelligent men in the world of his feelings towards said man. Hopefully Sherlock would still be dazed from his rebirth, enough to not notice. That thought was quickly dashed when the space between the detective's brow furrowed. John stood hastily and turned, eager to get away from what had the highest probability of rejection, when fingers curled around his own, halting his retreat.

"Please don't run from me," Sherlock said softly. "I know you have long watched me; I have done the same with you. Perhaps it is time we faced one another. Whatever this new life is I know it will be better by your side." He tugged him closer and his other hand went to his hip. "Or even closer." Months of want flushed his system and he was oddly pleased to realize that even if his heart didn't beat, other parts of his anatomy were working perfectly fine.

This was familiar in a way that wasn't; John remembered clearly the way his affection for Mary had turned to insatiable lust upon his rebirth, but Sherlock's lust was something he'd never before encountered, either towards him or anyone else. It was new and curious, potentially untrustworthy. But _oh_ , how he _wanted_. His desires warred with his moral code, telling him that the newborn was vulnerable and clinging to the only familiar person around, but also that John’s actual feelings when _he'd_ been turned hadn't changed, only amplified, and why would Sherlock be different? He was still frozen in that unearthly still way vampires got, posed just over his flatmate, when the other vampire appeared to lose patience with his indecision, wrapping steel-strong arms around his waist and rolling him onto his back, easily swapping their positions.

Sherlock kissed him. The way he’d longed to do for so many days and nights. He could feel John’s hesitation and pulled back, uncertain. “If you don’t want…” Had he misread him? Was he wrong, even now? “John…”

The kiss was so far from what John had done when he'd been reborn, so gentle and loving with none of the predatory hunger or lust brought to life by the long erection pressing into his hip, that the smooth press of plush lips against his own jolted the ex-soldier from his thoughts and spurred him into action. Less than a second later, he had reversed them and straddled slim hips to stare down at the vampire who had so many new things to learn about his upgraded physique. Surprised grey eyes blinked back up at him, despite the new lack of necessity for the action, and John grinned. The answering smile went a long way towards assuaging his worries that whatever changes he allowed to their relationship had more than a decent chance at permanence. He licked his lips, made himself more comfortable in the other man's lap, or as best as he could with their erections pressing against one another, and then bent low to engage Sherlock in a battle of tongues.

Sherlock moaned against him, all his worries vanishing in an instant. Why hadn’t they done this sooner? So much to learn but right now all he wanted was this man. He rocked up against him, hands coming back to squeeze John’s arse. And they’d have forever of this, right? Or at least so long as they both wanted it. Which might well be forever. He surrendered to John’s mouth, offering himself to the smaller man.

The new vampire's mouth and hands on him were hungry and desperate, needy to an extreme, and yet, his body was barely responding, grip weak and the thrusts of his hips shallow. The doctor knew the body below him was still recovering, still coming to terms with the fact that it could shake off its cloak of rigor mortis without the use or need of the cardiovascular system. Or any system. Oh god, the experiments he could anticipate his mate conducting when his primal needs were sated long enough to conduct them... Hopefully the newness would wear off and the variables would wear out within the decade. For now though, it was detrimental to both of their pleasure to let his mind wander. He broke away and got off the bed, the sound Sherlock started to make dying when John began to strip in cool efficiency.

Sherlock licked his lips and tugged at his own clothes. His limbs felt heavy still as he stared at John, admiring the body before him. His own hands landed on his side and he looked down at the still fresh mortal wound, probing it curiously with his fingers and momentarily distracted.

"Stop, you git," John reprimanded, slapping away the curious fingers. "I'm about to fuck you; you can play with that later." Wide grey eyes turned to blink at him, startled and pupils wide in arousal. "Plus, it needs time to heal. I'm going to be moving you too much for it to get any rest tonight. You don't need to aggravate it further." He knew he was grinning wickedly, and after a minute, it was returned. He finished stripping and moved to help his lover before digging around in the bedside drawer. "I knew you would have some," he exclaimed triumphantly, holding up a, perhaps outdated, bottle of lube. He tested the viscosity between his thumb and first two fingers, finding it suitable for use. Still smiling, he straddled his mate's waist again, grinding down on the long, slim cock pressed between his arse cheeks.

Moaning, Sherlock grabbed his hips, rocking up on instinct. “I thought...you’d take me?” he asked, watching John intently. He’d never been with anyone, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined what it would be like to be with John. Really he was the only one he’d considered ever being with.

The older vampire chuckled. "No, Sherlock. You've just turned. Your body is still adjusting to its new abilities. Plus, I'm too impatient to go slow right now," he murmured, squirting a copious amount of lube into his left palm before moving it to his arse, smearing Sherlock's cock and his own hole with the substance before pressing two fingers into himself. Vampires didn't feel pain the way humans did, but he was still vividly aware of the stretch of his digits, the sensation of being filled and opened. He dropped his head back and moaned, his fangs sliding down slowly, their presence because of arousal rather than anger or hunger.

Sherlock gaped. He’d often thought, in certain lights, that John was perhaps beautiful, or at least a man worthy of attention. To see him like this though… He reached forward and wrapped a hand around John’s hefty cock and started stroking him, smearing precome. “John... I... haven’t done this,” he admitted. Turned into a vampire and first time having intercourse. This was certainly an unexpected and interesting evening.

"I know, love, jusssst..." John's words trailed off on a gusty exhale, courtesy of his own accidental press against his prostate at the same time Sherlock's palm glided over the tip of his cock in a lovely twist of his bony wrist. A wrist that would never gain any meat thanks to John's inability to properly protect his friend, the one he had chosen for a mate long before he'd even turned him. The ex-soldier shook off the cloak of melancholy that had settled over him and let the little trails of electricity fade before he continued, "just relax and let me take care of you, yeah?" His voice was still coming out breathy as the doctor pumped his two fingers and and out a few more times before deeming it quite enough prep and pulled his fingers free, wasting no time in curling them around the cock behind him. Two hands were suddenly gripping his hips as he pressed the tip against his hole and, realising he had closed his eyes, opened them. The sight that met his eyes: grey eyes wide, mouth open, fangs extended (he doubted the new vampire even knew they had done so), chest moving as little, unnecessary (but arousing) pants fell from between plush lips, made John lose all semblance of _slow_ and he dropped completely onto Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock squeezed John's hips as his words were stolen from his lips. _Tight, heat, good, John, John_. The older vampire rode him fast and hard; it was all Sherlock could do to hold on. Without being aware of how close he was, he came suddenly, finally giving a low cry as he spasmed and filled his new lover, the world seeming to shift.

Without warning, Sherlock curled in on himself, hips straining up into John's and fingers pulling him down hard enough to break him if he were human. But just when it seemed he was going to press his forehead to John's sternum, he reared back and struck, fangs longer than the older vampire's punching through the skin above his jugular. It had been ages since he'd been bitten, and he'd completely forgotten what the pleasure was like. It had been even longer since he'd shared blood with another vampire, let alone had sex with one, and he eagerly bit down in a mirror of his mate, completing the circle of blood exchange. The feel of harsh, greedy pulls against his neck in combination with the taste of Sherlock's still-fairly fresh blood down his throat had him coming without a touch, without even a hint of friction against his cock, and the sparks and taste of pleasure in his veins and his mouth had his eyes rolling back in his head and his body falling back on the bed, pulling the still stiff-ish body with him and on top of him.

It was amazing. Like nothing he’d ever experienced. Even the highs of the drugs was nothing compared to this. He took a few more greedy pulls of the cold blood until he realized how still John was. Fear spiked down his back and he carefully pulled his fangs free, looking down at his… lover? mate? whatever they were now. It took a few a few moments to find his words again, reaching out with a shaking hand to stroke his hair. “John?”

The world was hazy and John wasn't sure how Sherlock was fine when he was so overwhelmed. The younger vampire started to pull away, but he clamped tight around his lover when he tried to pull away. "Just, hold still a second. It's been a while since I've had so much of something so... pure." Maybe that's why he was feeling out of sorts. He was used to small amounts of weaker blood, and after the meal he'd had draining Sherlock and then tasting the other vampire as he was drunk of, it was anything but small or weak. "My head is spinning," he laughed, relaxing in increments and nearly purring with the feel of the body above him following suit, melding their skin nearly together.

Sherlock relaxed against him, licking the puncture wound he’d made. “You’re amazing,” he breathed softly as he relaxed, loving the solidness of John underneath him. He wondered what his lover meant by pure. “Is it always like this?” His natural curiosity had him wondering. And after all, he had little idea of what to expect, aside from what he’d seen of John.

"Mmm," the doctor hummed, trying to wrangle his words in the right order. "Yes and no. A true mating is what we just did, feeding from each other while we fuck, and you will experience no greater pleasure as a vampire. How we felt during and after is normal; that's the 'yes'. The 'no' is that, however you decide to regularly feed, whether it's from humans or blood bags, and you _will_ need a full meal once a week as a new vampire. You cannot ignore your body the way you did before, Sherlock. But drinking like I drink, blood bags and small sips from willing veins, will make times like this pack that much more of a punch." It took him a moment to realise that his fangs had dropped again, curving down and begging for more blood, begging to be embedded back in the other man's jugular. He licked his lips and kept his head turned to the side, not wanting Sherlock to see until he was sure the other vampire understood the habits of their kind.

Sherlock nodded. “And I still need to drink from a human before the next daybreak. I trust you will teach me to drink properly, and the other things that have changed.” He held John a little closer. “And I would thoroughly enjoy being your mate.”

"Yes I will. And good, because you're stuck with me." John tried to laugh away the relief he felt at hearing that his mate accepted his claim, wouldn't revoke or challenge it, but an edge of hysteria crept into the sound, one that was silenced with calm fingers in his hair, a knowing look, and gentle lips against his own. He felt the panic subside under Sherlock's intentions until finally the other could pull away, but went no farther than pressing their foreheads together. "Good," he repeated in a low murmur into the air between their lips. "Because you're stuck with me."

**.oOo.**

The first few days of Sherlock’s rebirth were giddy. John started teaching him about his new life. And he saw the way John watched him when he drank from a human, being careful he didn’t drink too much. But it was also obviously an erotic sight for him too and by the time they returned to their flat they fell into bed all over again. To Sherlock it felt like his eyes had been opened. In more than one way, given how his affection for John was returned. He found it comforting to wake with John by his side, maybe snoring softly, features softened by the morning light.

Of course the bliss couldn’t last that long, not with an older brother like Mycroft. Sherlock was in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms and poking at an experiment when Mycroft stepped into the flat without knocking. Of course he’d picked a time when John had gone out for some things. Sherlock met his eyes as Mycroft moved into the kitchen. “Lestrade said you weren’t answering your mobile. I needed to make sure you weren’t deceased.”

Sherlock almost laughed at that, but bit it back. “As you can see, I am perfectly fine. Simply injured myself the other day and John insisted that I take things easy.” He turned back to the table.

Suddenly Mycroft grabbed his shirt and lifted it, seeing the mortal wound before Sherlock could jerk back. “Are you sure you’re not deceased, brother mine?”

“What do _you_ want?” John asked, jaw tight as he stepped through the door to the sight of the older Holmes standing with his mate’s shirt in his grasp, lifted to expose the still-healing knife wound. He had heard the human’s arrival from down the street, but with as many people around as there were, and with an armful of groceries, he hadn’t been able to use his supernatural speed until he’d closed the front door behind him. Now he was fighting the need to use it again to shove Mycroft away. Far away. Body tense and fighting to regain some of the politeness he usually treated the man with, John moved into the kitchen to put away the few things he had purchased; vampires didn’t _need_ to consume human food, but he could still enjoy the taste of it every once in a while. He paused with his hand in the bag and took a deep, unnecessary breath, feeling his mate’s brother staring at him, likely in surprise. “My apologies. Sherlock cannot be moving or acting too animatedly with his injury. Your presence tends to throw his laziness out the window,” the older vampire half-heartedly explained away his reaction, still trying to calm his need to remove the new body from the territory they were still growing into together as a mated couple.

Mycroft let the shirt fall and stepped back. “The truth, John. That is what I want.” With his position, he knew much about the world that others did not. Including the existence of certain peoples that were only rumored to exist. Though he hadn’t heard of one moving as freely about in the sun as John did. As John watched him, he was suddenly aware, in that moment, that he was very much in the presence of a predator. Two, really, judging by the marks on his brother’s neck. He had his own suspicions, but he hoped they would just be honest with him.

There was a long, quiet moment wherein John just stared his mate's brother down, aware that the man held more power than some small countries, but that he could die from the vampire's teeth or nails in less time than it would take for the human to take a full breath. Unless Mycroft knew about his kind like his stare lingering on John's teeth marks on Sherlock's exposed neck indicated. Weighing the risks in case the British government was lying, John moved to his mate's side, faster than the human eye could follow, though Sherlock's wide grey eyes followed him with ease, alight in wonder. He sinuously insinuated himself between the two Holmes, unable to yet quell the desire to protect the newborn vampire from all the things he was still learning about and still learning to do, and that included the danger than any human that knew about their kind presented, even family members. When he stopped, directly between the two, Mycroft's eyes went wide and he took a single, quick step backwards before appearing to compose himself, though the doctor could still hear the thrum of the startled human's heart in his chest. It was all very quick and quiet, but from Mycroft Holmes, it was as good as a scream of fear and surprise was from anyone else.

Mycroft swallowed around the fear, although every human instinct was telling him to run. He chose his next words very carefully. “Whatever you are or are not,” he said, watching the two. “You have never been a threat to my brother. Quite the opposite, really. No doubt you do not need my assistance, however, if there is anything at all that you need or that I can do…” And he would do anything for his brother. He’d done some terrible things in the past for his brother’s sake, offering himself to a vampire didn’t seem that insane.

Both vampires stared, and considered the man and his offer. Finally, with a stalling palm to Sherlock’s stomach, John stepped forward and held out his hand. “Give me your wrist,” he instructed. In front of him, Mycroft met his eyes and did not move. Behind him, his mate went still. John simply waited. Finally, the human raised his hand and placed it in his own upturned one. Barely had their skin made contact when the doctor’s grasp tightened and he flipped over the metaphorical olive branch, exposing a wrist as delicate as his mate’s. Slowly, more slowly than he’d done anything in a bit, John let his fangs slide free as he raised the human’s wrist. They were fully exposed by the time skin met his lips, and Mycroft’s eyes were wide on him, pupils dilated and pulse beating wildly, but he did not so much as twitch when the vampire pierced flesh and blood hit his tongue. There was enough similarity between the brother’s blood that, for a split second, he forgot himself and let his eyes clothes to enjoy the taste. As soon as he did so though, the hand in his twitched and his eyes snapped open, fingers tightening, though not enough to break. Once Mycroft stilled, John resumed drinking in small sips, this time not breaking eye contact. He wanted to see how long the human would tolerate this and what his reaction would be when his tolerance ran out.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide as he watched his mate and his brother. Part of him was jealous, watching John take another’s blood. Part of him was protective, if he was honest. Mycroft had always done all he could to protect him. He knew that, even if he resented it. And Mycroft was looking pale as John held his eyes. The sound of John’s sips was loud to his ears, making him hunger. He wanted to step towards them, but that would break the moment. This was something John and Mycroft had to work out for themselves.

Mycroft’s breath came in short pants. He thought he could feel himself weakening and wondered if the vampire would drink him dry. He would let him, if that was what he wanted, if his blood would give John the strength to keep Sherlock safe. Mycroft made no further attempts to move away, simply waited, knowing his life was quite literally in John Watson’s hand. The hand not being held was shaking, but he ignored it. The truth was he had not been so afraid in a very long time.

Mycroft, despite his rapidly beating heart, wide eyes, and pallid, sweaty skin, was not breaking eye contact with John. He was holding completely and utterly still, even though it had been several long minutes since the vampire had initiated this game. He had been waiting for the human to make the first move, but everything about the posh man beneath his fangs indicated he would simply stand there and let himself be bled dry. Finally satisfied with the human’s reaction, John withdrew his fangs and licked the spot on the man’s wrist where his teeth had pierced, easily closing the wound. Quickly, he guided the shaking man into a chair before turning around and doing the same to his mate, who was frozen stiff with wide eyes and flaring nostrils. He grudgingly left them alone to hurry about the kitchen, heating drinks for both of the brothers. When he came out again, it was with a cup of tea suffused with excess sugar, and a mug of heated blood from a blood bag, as well as a typical cuppa for himself. Luckily, Sherlock was still too young to develop the addiction to fresh blood that so many of their newborns developed from improper teachings. He wouldn’t let his mate be put down like an animal by the hunters that roamed the world like so many others who failed to control themselves and their creations. He pressed each man’s respective cup into their palms and perched on the arm of his mate’s chair, running calming fingers through the dark curls as he sipped his drink and waiting for someone to speak.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock nuzzled against John’s hand. He felt a little stronger as he sipped his tea. Looking down he examined his wrist, finding that the mark was barely noticeable. Nodding half to himself, he looked back at the two vampires. “Clearly you are taking care of one another,” he said quietly. “If you need anything at all, John, you know how to reach me. I assure you, you do have my silence.” Sipping more tea, he would have got up and walked out if he had the strength, but he was fairly certain he didn’t. Instead he waited for them to respond. Sherlock looked up at John, obviously trusting his judgement on the situation.

“I believe you,” John murmured, arousal prickled by the brush of lips and fangs against his palm. He was tempted to thread his fingers through his mate’s hair, grip tight, and _pull_ , but they were in company and he much preferred to only do such things in private. “In return, I will do my best to ensure our presence in London continues to go unnoticed. As it always has been. Sherlock is still learning, but the discipline he had in life is translating well in his rebirth. I’m proud of how well he’s doing.” His mate went still under his palm and then turned a cautious, bright smile up at him and John couldn’t help but drop down to press their lips together in a hungry kiss.

That was all the motivation Mycroft needed to leave. He finished his tea and leaned on his umbrella as he got to his feet. “You may wish to contact Inspector Lestrade. He has expressed concern, though I did assure him you two were fine.” He made his way out, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock nipped John’s lip, moaning softly as he heard his brother retreat down the stairs and make a call. Lestrade, he assumed. Fascinating, how much he could hear. John’s hands on him brought his attention back and he smiled up at his mate, angling his neck in offering. He wanted John inside of him. The mental image of John drinking from Mycroft sprung to mind again and made his cock twitch. No wonder John found the sight of him drinking so arousing; it was true the other way as well.

He had planned for the kiss to be rather short, but as soon as their lips touched, he hadn’t been able to help himself. Drinking blood from the vein, no matter whose vein it was, tended to arouse him, and just because it wasn’t his mate’s blood made no difference to him. Or rather, to his cock. John barely paid attention to the sound of Mycroft leaving, only to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as soon as the door closed, twisting to pull him down to the floor. The newborn landed on his back with a still-instinctual gasp and John grinned ferally at him as he sat back on his heels to strip Sherlock from his clothes, pleased with the pliancy of his mate’s body. As soon as the ratty pyjama bottoms were free (and of course the git wasn’t wearing any pants), Sherlock’s legs falling apart to accommodate the older vampire shuffling forward on his knees, John’s head and fangs dropped simultaneously and he bit into the pale flesh over the femoral artery, right at the crease of leg and pelvis. Sherlock bucked against his mouth and his jaw tightened instinctually against his prey’s reaction, but a moment later, two hands grasped one of his and pulled it up, a cool, wet mouth sucking in his first two fingers.

Sherlock's eyes fell shut at the pleasure of his mate’s fangs. He sucked eagerly, tongue dancing over tea-stained fingers. His other leg drew up, offering himself. He made tiny thrusts at the air, reveling at the moment. He knew his mate needed to take and claim after the intrusion on their territory. And that was fine by him.

Once he felt his fingers were wet enough, John yanked them free from the suction holding them contained and immediately pressed them into Sherlock’s tight hole. It was a long, diligent process, taking twice the time it usually needed to for his mate’s newly-reborn form to open to his ministrations. But he kept the young vampire distracted by repeatedly pulling his teeth free only to bite again, each time in a slightly different location, keeping the stinging sensation going unendingly. Finally, he deemed the other vampire ready and, reluctantly, he pulled his fangs free for a final time from his mate’s femoral artery before he moved up and slid his cock into the other vampire in one smooth move. The tightness was nearly excruciating with how pleasurable it was around him. It had been too long since he’d fucked another vampire, and it was rather different to slide into that coolness rather than the heat of a human. But it was no less amazing. He pulled Sherlock’s legs up until bony knees were pressed to a bony chest, and bony legs were draped over John’s shoulders, and proceed to promptly drive into his mate as hard as he could, relieved to be able to, for once, not have to hold back.

Sherlock was already buzzing from bliss even before John drove into him. He moaned his pleasure, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He was so full, John's small groans music to his ears. Everything was _John_ , there was no room for anything else. He tossed his head, some part of him knowing that if he were still human, John would be more than bruising him. And it was _exquisite._

His mate was more than pliant under him, he was _encouraging_. Almost obnoxiously so, what with the way he writhed and bucked under John, almost as if he was trying to get away. But the way he clawed at the ground, leaving furrows in the wood, and the way 'please' and 'more' fell as often from his lips as rain did from London's skies, spoke even better to the younger vampire's state of mind. Just watching someone so composed go so absolutely wild, for and from and on his cock, put a feral grin on John's face, and he wrapped his hands around Sherlock's thighs, pulling the man's arse to his pelvis. All the better to fuck harder and faster into as the ticklish beginnings of an orgasm whispered at the base of his spine.

Sherlock forced his eyes open. John looked wild, fangs extended, perhaps just a bit of blood in his mouth. The slate eyes had closed, thrusts more brutal until Sherlock felt his release and watched the orgasm ripple across his face. That needed to be stored in his mind palace with his most precious memories. Sherlock himself was perilously close, but not there yet as John fucked him through his orgasm.

At the tail end of his orgasm, John realised Sherlock was still stone-hard and leaking obscenely between them and he snarled, diving down to drive his fangs into the exposed neck with a bite that would have torn open a human's throat. But for his mate, it was all the new vampire needed to find his own release. Sherlock nearly screamed, the sound as abrasive as it was delightful to his sensitive ears, as come hit the slightly pudgy planes of John's stomach and the muscles around his cock tightened to such a vice-like state that his vision went dark.

It was some time later Sherlock became aware of himself again. He was still on the floor, throat sore and John's weight heavy over him. Sighing softly he ran his hands down John's broad back, so grateful for what he had. He kissed John's cheek gently.

John groaned low in his throat as he slowly pulled out, lowering his lover's legs to the ground as he sat back on his heels, eyes drawn up to the sight of Greg standing in their open door. The human's eyes were wide and his jaw slack, hand limp on the handle, and John gave him a cheeky, bloody grin as he picked Sherlock's foot off the floor and pressed a kiss to the ankle bone. The DI's eyes shot down to his mate when the younger vampire hummed in pleasure, and then the human simply walked away. The street door hadn't even closed before John couldn't hold back his laughter any longer, and he collapsed in a fit on the floor next to Sherlock. Confused but happy grey eyes turned to him as the detective, who must not have heard the DI come and go, gave him a questioning smile. Unable to answer, John simply let his giddy laughter consume him as he consumed his mate's mouth.

**.oOo.**

The door to Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club slammed open in the face of Greg's near frantic movements and he received several scandalised looks when he turned around to slam it closed again. Mycroft was sitting at his desk, pen in hand poised above paper and one eyebrow raised, demanding explanation. Greg ignored him too and made a beeline for the expensive scotch in the glass-faced cabinet. In seconds, he'd poured himself a hearty three fingers and downed it in one swallow. After a brief consideration, he did it a second time before pouring himself a third glass and collapsing in the chair in front of Mycroft's desk. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he just saw...

"Argh!" he snarled, pressing his knuckles to his eyes while refusing to put the glass down, trying to grind away the images burned onto his retinas. "ARGH," he repeated for good measure.

"Been to see Sherlock?" He inquired. "I did tell you I would see them." He watched the Inspector down the entire glass in one go. Standing, he took the scotch from his hand. "What did you see?"

"I saw what no man should have to see. And as it was _your_ vague voicemail that made me go to Baker Street, it was _your_ fault I saw... I saw... _that_ , so _I_ am drinking all of _your_ scotch.” Greg stood on wobbly feet and snatched the scotch back with a glare. “I have seen some shit tonight Mycroft Holmes, and I. am. drinking. this. scotch," he declared, jabbing the other man in the chest with his finger with each word. As Mycroft glared back, Greg downed the rest of the carafe.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, please leave us a review, and don't forget to drop by tumblr to say 'hi' to [Mer](http://merindab.tumblr.com/) and [Kat](http://themadkatter13-fanfiction.tumblr.com/).


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